PTSD. It’s a Thing.
My hands shook on the steering wheel. Heart racing, breath shallow. I wanted to jump out of my own skin. Is this what a panic attack felt like?
I was driving north toward the San Francisco airport on that Monday afternoon. At that moment I should have been on a flight myself, about to touch down in Capetown, South Africa, on a parent trip to join my son Josh on his Semester at Sea journey. Along with other students and parents, we were to go on safari together. I had my lightweight long sleeves, bug spray, Crocodile Dundee hat and binoculars ready to go in my brand new maroon Away suitcase.
But there was no packed suitcase in my trunk. Instead, I was on my way to pick Josh up. He and all of the other SAS participants had been told to get the first flight available home. It was March 15th, 2020.
Josh was lucky to be on that flight. Adding to the shock, denial, anger, bargaining and grief over the abrupt cancellation of my own trip - a bucket list experience I’d been anticipating with the giddiness of a little girl - was the fear that Josh wouldn’t be allowed out of the country. Covid19 had been chasing his journey since the ship embarked on January 4 from San Diego en route to Hawaii. Their next destination was Japan, where he celebrated his 21st birthday by partying all night in a Tokyo bar with his new friends. While in Japan they started hearing rumors about a virus in Shanghai, their next stop. “We’re going to spend more time in Vietnam,” he texted me on WhatsApp, “and skip China altogether.” He was disappointed but excited about really exploring Vietnam.
Then more disappointments, more re-routes: Malaysia, India. The Seychelles agreed to take them, but wouldn’t let them dock at the last minute, so the itinerary changed to the island of Mauritius. Since leaving Vietnam they’d been at sea for two weeks, a long time for college kids (or anyone.)
My husband and I followed the constantly changing itinerary with only mild trepidation, until the blockage from the Seychelles. At that point in late February there was a ship stuck just outside of the Golden Gate, the passengers not allowed to disembark. Will Josh’s ship be allowed to land anywhere? If they are allowed off, will they be permitted to leave whatever country they’re in?
On Wednesday, March 11, my trip was still a go. Either SAS organizers were in denial, or I was (or both). Hannah, my 22-year old, called that night – anxiety thick in her voice. “Mom, please don’t go. What happens if you get sick? You don’t want to be in a hospital in Africa, do you? Either way they might not let you and Josh come back home!”
I listened, and went to bed thinking I’d call in to cancel the next morning. Sleep was elusive. I woke to an email from SAS. Parent trip cancelled. Get your student on a plane home. Immediately.
That anxious, jumpy feeling persisted for three weeks into the lockdown. I couldn’t fathom why I felt so anxious. Both kids were home safely, sheltering in place with me, my husband Richard and our two dogs. I had lots of free time (since I’d cleared my calendar for the Africa trip) to figure out how to move my voice and piano teaching business online.
I called Nancy, my therapist for many years. She asked a few probing questions, and it hit me. “I think I have PTSD.”
The world as I had known it had changed, fallen out from under my feet. What had been safe was now unsafe. Everything looked the same…the trees were leafing out, the birds still sang their songs and the bunnies in our yard still came out of their home in the bushes every dawn and dusk to nibble at our lawn.
I realized my panic started putting out its tentacles that Sunday, March 13, as Hannah and I had gone to Whole Foods to stock up ($400 on groceries? Yep). The eerie energy of panic permeated the store. Of uncertainty. Of fear. I saw it in the unmasked faces of the shoppers, the checkout clerks. Shelves emptying. What was safe to do? Where was it safe to go? Where do we get our answers, since there’s no question our “stable genius “of a president wouldn’t guide us with our interests in mind, wouldn’t believe science.
I remembered how it felt for those few days after my husband David’s plane crashed into a vineyard. He survived but with a severely debilitating brain injury. My safe world wasn’t anymore. I needed to adapt to the new normal. A phrase we’ve all gotten used to in these past six months.
It just took that one therapy session, and a medication adjustment, to move into the final phase – acceptance. No amount of denial or bargaining will stop the virus.
So I accept. And wash my hands, stay six feet apart, wear my mask. I feel safer now.
Let’s all stay safe.
